Christopher Robin, that fine young lad,

had quite a creative and whimsical Dad,

who wrote about creatures who lived in the nursery,

making adventures for Chris, all in versery.

 

Pooh was a pudge, and quite a bit plump,

a glutton for honey, and dumb as a stump;

With little brain to “Think, think, think…

Oh, bother, where was I?” he’d say in a blink.

 

While piglet was little, afraid and befretted,

a tiny pink friend Pooh never regretted,

defended from Woozles and Heffalumps too—

Exactly the way a friend ought to do.

 

And for that matter, all Pooh’s friends were a mess—

Eeyore depressed,

Owl, who digressed,

Rabbit, the know-it-all, always a test.

 

And finally, Tigger, ADHD, and sproingy,

hyper-as-heck, all a-bounce, oingy boingy!

Just a bit off, yet loved and adored.

With all of these oddballs, Chris couldn’t be bored.

 

Not all of Pooh’s friends were as looped as a llama;

There was Kanga and Roo; little joey and Mama—

Milne sketched out their foibles, and CR was Roo—

Do you think Christopher Robin knew, Pooh?

 

A hundred woods acres to ramble about—

Owl’s Tree, and Trespasser Will’s house,

Rabbit’s Garden, Eeyore’s hut made of sticks—All at five.

Next book: Now We are Six.

 

*Pooh Corner; The Annual Poetic Edition 2021